


A Story Told

by Zenithyl



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Interpretation, Chain of Events, Cryptic storytelling, Dark!Harry, Darkfic, Death, Destiny, Dramatic Irony, Fate, Gen, Harry Potter has too many names, Humbled!Lucius, Life Debt, Magical Artifacts, Mystery, Not Epilogue Compliant, Perpetual smiler!Harry, Post-War, Riddles, Story within a Story, Storytelling, Tales, broken!Draco, broken!harry, emotional!Narcissa, history repeats itself
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-12
Updated: 2015-03-13
Packaged: 2018-02-12 22:26:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 19,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2126814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zenithyl/pseuds/Zenithyl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story told by Harry Potter is the only source of clues that might save them. </p><p>They'll learn to listen closely, or pay the price for their ignorance.</p><p>
  <i>NOTE: This work is on hiatus until the author has slain the dreaded foe known as Writer's Block.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fate is cruel

They should have known that it was too good to be true.

The end of the War – and the War itself for that matter – had only brought them pain, had only demanded more sacrifices. The father’s very soul was in immediate danger, for he would surely be Kissed even before he even reached the execution chamber. The mother was, relatively speaking, in the best position, though she was at risk of being thrown on the streets, cut off from any and all finances or support. Their son literally had no future left, no matter how it would go. The Malfoy family was on the verge of total destruction.

When the Saviour of the Light, the Slayer of He-who-must-not-be-named, the Vanquisher of the Dark Lord, the Chosen One, the man who killed Voldemort, unexpectedly descended to speak up in their defence, tears _might’ve_ been almost shed. It was a very near thing. Flames of their hopes that had long since died were instantly rekindled, if only as tiny sparks.

No, he wasn’t going to allow the Wizengamot to take them. Yes, they were guilty. Yes, they did not deserve any less. But to utterly ruin a family like that would not set a proper example for the children of their world, who must learn of mercy, not of ruthlessness.

Thus he spoke. And thus mote it be.

All agreed, though not without fight. The family barely thought to listen for the specifics, glad as they were to have been spared. Astounded as they were by the realisation of _who_ had ensured their survival. Once the Saviour had stepped in, not a word had been directed to any of those standing trial. All three could only stare at the back of their defender as he spoke.

Someone suggested the Saviour himself be the supervisor, seeing as he so _obviously_ was an _impartial_ party. The young man himself paused for a few measly seconds before agreeing. _He most likely did not expect this outcome, Gryffindor that he is_ thought Narcissa Malfoy idly.

Only much, much later did she recall that moment and wonder if there wasn’t a hidden smile of satisfaction involved.

They were relocated to an isolated manor, the Slayer’s primary residence from what they understood. Once there, things settled into a routine. All residents had their meals together, but were otherwise free to do as they liked. All three Malfoys were confined to the house and its surrounding land by magical means, but the one they were forced to call Lord was not.

Unexpectedly, things weren’t nearly as bad as they feared. Lord Potter had a very mellow temperament and was never seen without a smile on his lips, no matter how small. His eyes, however, had a hollow sort of darkness to them.

That really should have clued them in.

Within the first month the hidden darkness surfaced. It was a minor thing that triggered it, nothing of importance truly, but without warning Potter _snapped_ and cursed Draco Malfoy to within an inch of his life. It shook his parents badly and rattled the foundations of the unspoken truce between Potter and the Malfoys to pieces.

It is at this point that, in the privacy of his mind, Lucius Malfoy lamented his poor choices of the past and that his entire family would have to pay the price for his mistakes.

With the tentative peace shattered, the balance broken, an all-encompassing tension took its place. Lessons well learnt to survive the Dark Lord were now applied once more. The situation was positively ironic.

* * *

Fate was unimaginably cruel. The Hero of the Wizarding World was supposed to be their saviour too.


	2. Karma is vengeful

It was Lucius’ turn to watch his son. His wife had exhausted herself a number of hours ago. Right now, Draco could do little more than sleep, heal and—occasionally—eat. Whatever magic it was that Lord Potter had used on him, it had been powerful, destructive and extremely painful.

 _And unknown_ supplied the part of Lucius’ brain that was always gathering information.

The Healer who had been called in for Draco—by Lord Potter himself, curiously—had confirmed that all foreign magic had by then already dissipated. All that remained were the injuries; the damage it had left. They would have to heal naturally with aid only of his internal magic. During this time, Draco was exceptionally vulnerable, which was why Narcissa and Lucius took turns watching over him, lest Lord Potter decide to finish the job he started.

Since the… incident, Lord Potter had only been seen at the mandatory mealtimes. It didn’t say much, though, for even when things hadn’t been so _strained_ yet he had hardly been seen anywhere but in the dining room during a meal. Had it not been for the very rare times that Lord Potter was spotted randomly in one of the other rooms— _never_ in any of the hallways—the Malfoys would have sworn he ceased to exist outside the dining room.

Their landlord of sorts had developed a peculiar way of walking in the time he spent in hiding, apparently. For lack of a better word, he _drifted_ when he walked. His every movement _floated_. It was a distinctly unsettling sight, but not obviously so, which is why it took until after things had gone south that they noticed. Though who could say how recent it truly was?

It was Narcissa who, one day, happened to stumble upon the sight of the Lord of the manor sitting quietly in a dark room somewhere in the deeper parts of the residence. Even living there full-time for one and half a month did not give enough experience to know all that it contained. She almost walked on without registering the scene, but soon realised what she had nearly missed. Harry Potter was just sitting, staring into nothing, _smiling_ the smile that never left his face, not even when he was torturing her only son. Not for the first time, Narcissa felt as if her spine had been replaced with ice.

“Why don’t you join me, Mrs Malfoy?”

Narcissa jumped at the sudden voice, high-strung as she was. The question was perfectly polite with not even a hint of irritation or anger. It was for all it appeared merely a request. But to her ears, it might as well have been a harsh-voiced command accompanied by a death-threat in case of disobedience. She slipped into the room.

“Of course, my lord.”

She was Sorted Slytherin, a member of two Slytherin families by birth and by marriage, who had served a Slytherin Dark Lord of the Slytherin bloodline. Self-preservation was both in and all around her. There would be no hesitance in bowing her head and obeying commands if it kept her safe.

 _In this little light he is a literal Dark Lord_ flashed through Narcissa’s mind before she could stop herself.

And so he looked indeed. His posture was that of a king on his throne, cast in shadows and darkness by the absence of light in the room. The only illumination came from beyond the still-open door. She sank down into a seat in front of him.

Lord Potter did not seem inclined to start a conversation beyond the words already exchanged. The clear calmness of his mood spurred Narcissa on, made her decide that this was as good a chance as she was going to get, and take it.

“What it is you desire from us?”

 _The smile_ grew impossibly wider.

“Revenge.”

* * *

It is as they say: karma is vengeful to a fault. All misdeeds their family has committed have at long last returned to haunt them.


	3. Destiny is blind

That fateful day, when the darkness had reared its head, Harry Potter had been found in a drawing room on one of the lower levels.

Why he was there, they didn’t know, and to this day still no one knew but the man himself. The soft sounds of clinking glasswork and the shuffling of paper had been heard several hallways over, as they had cut through the silence of the house. The Malfoy heir had found their source first, eager for some human interaction. His parents had reached the room a little later.

Narcissa remembered that she and her husband had barely stepped over the threshold when Draco had carelessly dropped that whimsical comment that had unleashed it all. Her darling Draco—whose pride had been scathed so badly, whose self-confidence had been poisoned, eroded away to leave little more than dust—had finally been able to heal, just a bit. He had felt safe enough, for the first time in so long, to relax. It proved a fatal error. Only _Lord Potter’s restraint_ had saved his life.

Potter’s wand was lifted with a smooth, careless gesture and Draco had  _screamed_. It was no Cruciatus, but it had the same effect. Several sweeps of the wand produced hundreds upon thousands of paper-thin cuts, without dulling the torture-curse-like effect any. Yet more not-curses where heaped upon those in effect while not relenting on the strength of any of the previous ones, stacking layer over layer and driving the agony ever higher.

Malignant _energy_ , for it could hardly be called magic, had _surged_. The hollow darkness the Vanquisher’s eyes sported had intensified along with it. Other than that, nothing outwardly changed.

If the magic—and the effects on Draco—had not been palpable, had not been visible, the elder Malfoys would’ve never thought to think anything amiss. _He_ just stood there, waving his wand, wearing his smile with nothing but politeness and friendliness on his features.

_Looking the same as he always did._

Not even the late Dark Lord was quite so apathetic considering he handed out crucios as if they were about to go out of style. In comparison, he was always _too emotional_ , too forceful, to manage the _gliding_ style Potter wielded.

As sudden as it had started, the assault had stopped and the feel of magic disappeared. The last reverberating shrieks of torment became wails of suffering to finally fade away into the muted sobs of one critically injured. Draco, who had borne all of the might brought down onto him, was still alive, but barely so. Already his consciousness had fled, left him in a state in between waking and dreaming, susceptible to both nightmares and the pain of his injuries.

The elder Malfoys had unwillingly been spectators to the torture of their son, from beginning to end, immobilised by the immense _weight_ of the magic. Even when it was over—and their son _needed_ them—movement was impossible. The waves of absolute, mind-blanking, cowing fear refused to subside just yet.

Then the Chosen One swept past them, heavy dragonhide boots not making the slightest sound—and oh, how _wrong_ that felt right then—when he _drifted_ by. One step, two steps, by the third step his form had been swallowed by the shadows of the hallway _that weren’t supposed to be this close, but much further along the walls._

“I will have my revenge, you know.”

Narcissa hastily looked up to the sight of Lord Potter next to his abandoned chair, _floating_ further away from her, bit by bit fading from sight in the depths of the room. He did that often; gradually seeming to dissipate into the darkness, even when by all rights there shouldn’t nearly be as much shadows in the vicinity.

As soon as she was alone yet again, she hurried away to find Lucius, to tell him of their future fate.

* * *

You could say that destiny is blind; it does not differentiate between good and bad. Even when you don’t know which is which.


	4. History will triumph

The news of Lord Potter’s impending revenge was no surprise to Lucius.

He had surmised as much, considering his role in the war and the history between himself and the last member of the Potter family. He was, after all, responsible for many deaths on the Light side and the majority of them had been close to Potter. Speaking of deaths, only his sister-in-law Bellatrix, her husband and his brother had a definite higher death-count. Many of his late friend Severus’ victims had either not died or did not by his wand or poisons, which had made his ‘score’ very low for his high position. In hindsight, he supposed, it was easy to see why.

_Wherever you are, old friend, I hope you will forgive me to presume myself allowed to mourn your death. For all that our sides were at war, I shall always remember you fondly and honour your memory._

Lucius quietly waited until the wave of bitter grief subsides. When the truth of Severus’ allegiance had come out, he had decided to respect the cunning and courage of the master spy rather than despise him for his choices. The memory of the snide potions master would always remain precious to the Malfoy patriarch, though he had sworn not to share this private sentiment with anyone save his wife and son.

Aforementioned wife woke him from his thoughts when she gently placed a hand on his shoulder. She looked drawn, tired. Caring for Draco weighted heavily upon both of them. He tried not to worry her with the morose thoughts that plagued him these days, in hopes of lightening her burdens.

_…The smile that keeps getting bigger and smaller, sharper and duller but never disappears—his wand not even pointed at Draco as he was meting out punishment—the gliding movements to smoothly pull out his wand and to put it away—Draco lying in a pool of his own blood, keening and whimpering in pain—_

He had hoped, prayed, that the Vanquisher had saved his family out of debt or morality. He had feared, but still preferred, to be a tool useful for his political prowess and connections. He had absolutely _dreaded_ the scenario that had become true.

 _Cissy had been lucky_ , he mused, _for she had the smallest amount of blame in_ his _eyes. I doubt myself or Draco had been able to get even as little as she did out of him without grave bodily injury._

Lucius watched Narcissa tend to their son’s injuries with a wet towel. He himself was supposed to be resting—sleeping—but felt he could not lie peacefully if he tried. Instead, he sat at Draco’s bedside to keep his wife company during her shift—for the umpteenth time that month.

Things were quiet and relatively relaxed…

“Hello.”

…which was why the sudden greeting was such a shock. Both elder Malfoys whirled around to face the dark corner the voice came from. There, half-hidden in the shadows, stood Lord Potter with his back against the wall. When their eyes fell upon his form, he stepped forwards and sat himself onto a nearby chair.

Lucius noted that the smile seemed serene this time. He silently prayed it stayed that way.

“Good day, my lord,” echoed the couple simultaneously, and accompanied their words with generous bows.

Lord Potter merely nodded in response. _Still safe_ supplied Lucius mind.

“I think it’s high time we have our discussion about the relationship between us.”

_Will we get answers? Unlikely but possible._

“Considering how an accident happened because we didn’t.”

_That is one way to put it._

The smile curved up a little more. The hollow darkness _shined_  a little more. His magic started a gentle but insistent hum.

“Have a seat.”

And so they sat.

* * *

They say that history was written by the victors. No one needs magic to predict who will win this particular fight—the latest in a long line—and dictate the stories told afterwards.


	5. Pain shapes us

An expanse of black dyed itself grey. Its centre dipped and he felt himself fell through. A river of grey whirled across his mind’s eye. And then—pain. _Screaming white-hot burning searing torturing mind-blowing flaming crushing all-compassing biting pain—_

Then it was gone, yet not—softened into an uncomfortably prickling warmth. _But not pain._

Draco fought to open his eyes. The light in his bedroom was dim, thankfully. He remembered _everything_. All that had happened to get him in this house up to how he had gotten in this state—including the _pain_ he had felt under the wand of this house’s Lord.

A brief thought was spared for the wand he now no longer had and the question of its possible location.

_If it hasn’t been snapped in half yet, that is._

That was when he truly _felt_ it. The magic. The resonance of the familiar magic wielded by his childhood nemesis. He never could forget that particular power. Would never be able to either, he suspected grimly.

His magical senses picked up on a tune of sorts and Draco’s magic weakly greeted that of his Lord while he slowly tuned into the happenings around him. He registered his parents standing on one side of him with Lord Potter sitting on a chair at the other side. Something had just been said.

Lord Potter spoke a few words Draco’s half-asleep mind couldn’t distinguish. His mother went and sat down on a chair close to his bed, his father—who had evidently been sitting earlier—lowered himself back onto the chair directly behind him.

A few beats of silence. Then—

“I’m glad you managed to join us in time, Junior.”

These days Potter called him nothing but Junior, or occasionally Malfoy Junior. The address of solely Malfoy had passed from Draco to his father, though when both were present the latter instead had the name Senior to match. Draco didn’t know why it was like that, why _he_ seemed to avoid using their first names, but he didn’t bother trying to find out. There were more important things to worry about.

Such as the fact that his parents and especially Lord Potter were waiting for him. Draco swallowed, tried to work his mouth despite the dryness and soreness.

“Yes, my lord.”

The words _hurt_ to get out, but he managed—and that was most important. Potter seemed satisfied, somehow, and nodded.

“You have questions,” Lord Potter stated calmly. “Ask them.”

 _Yes we do_ Draco thought. _We have many._

Lucius took charge. “Let us just see to the most pressing one: why are we here?”

Lord Potter smirked. He looked entirely too much like the cat that got the canary.

“How predictable,” he commented blandly. “But you do deserve an answer by now, don’t you?”

Everyone else remained quiet. Potter closed his eyes briefly and chuckled. It was the most emotion any of them had ever seen him express since before their trial.

“Very well. You are here because I intend to strike back at you and everyone else in this world. For all the times I was hurt, scorned, hunted, insulted, injured, threatened, _abused_ and used—I will get even.

You are here because I still have a score to settle with the three of you in particular.”

At this point, Lord Potter levelled a sharp, predatory gaze upon the three Malfoys.

“Remember your crimes, and _remember them well_. For I will have my revenge for each of them.”

Another chuckle escaped his lips.

“The muggles and the wizards—to me, you are so alike. It’s like you collaborated. _You broke me_.”

None of his audience could—would—protest against that last sentiment.

_“The Wizarding World will fall.”_

And with these parting words, Lord Potter’s form soundlessly vanished into the shadows.

* * *

A quote goes: “Pain is a part of life; it shapes us the same as love and laughter. You don’t have to forget, but you cannot let it destroy you. Conquer the pain, don’t let it conquer you.” Unfortunately, it does not say what to do when—rather than conquered—you’ve been smothered by and drowned in it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I planned to start the storytelling here, but as you see it didn't work out that way. This conversation had to take place first and it took up more space than I thought considering how short it is.  
> Storytime should start in the next chapter though.
> 
> Oh, and I tend to keep making small adaptions to my work even when it's already been posted. I don't change anything major, it's just little things in the wording of certain sentences to make everything read better. No one has to read everything again just because I made some changes in the meantime.
> 
>  _IF_ I do change something that pertains to the plot, I'll announce it.


	6. Gossip holds truth

In the weeks following that peculiar conversation—if it could be called that—Lord Potter had a few more _episodes_. Luckily, it never got as bad as the first. Still, it proved a challenge to endure silently and not make things worse. Protesting seemed to spur him on to put in more _effort_. Draco in particular had a number of instances where he didn’t manage to hold his tongue. His recent recovery didn’t entitle him to mercy.

Lord Potter seemed to have decided that his earliest ‘outburst’ had given away too much information—so he changed tactics.

He developed an additional style alongside the one he had used until now, and henceforth switched between them randomly. This second style employed nothing but common charms, jinxes and curses, though his applications were always creative.

This almost made the family fear this unorthodox style of magic more than the unknown one. The end result hardly differed between the two styles.

They never knew when another of these punishments was about to come up and to whom the dubious honour would fall to receive it. The suddenness of the casual violence scared them most of all.

Sometimes, physical violence was mixed in. None of the pure-bloods, raised solely around magic, knew how to deal with it. They had no stamina, hardly any resistance to non-magical pain, didn’t have their wands and—most of all—they knew next to nothing about fighting without magic. Potter had them cornered and they knew it.

As the Malfoy line was wont to do, they adapted.

Lucius discarded most of his haughty elite pure-blood demeanour and kept his opinions to himself except when asked, and even then he toned it down as much as possible. Narcissa sacrificed the mask of icy conceit she had painstakingly developed for most of her lifetime and tried instead to show a little more warmth, a little more emotion. Draco, who saw his last vestiges of arrogance shattered— _shredded_ even—in the skirmishes that involved him, became quiet and withdrawn while he tried to reinvent himself; to be someone able to survive in this environment.

The Malfoys didn’t have nearly enough information to their liking. Despite Lord Potter’s _helpfulness_ back then, they still didn’t know anything of importance—what they did have was inadequate.

They were determined to supplement it.

Subtly, carefully, Lucius tried to uncover more of the missing pieces. So he asked. He asked whenever possible, about anything he could think of. His Lord’s opinion on the state of the Wizarding World (political, social, general—and more), about events of his life, what he did in his free time, what he did away from the manor—Lucius would try asking about it all.

His wife decided to take her own route. Every day Narcissa tried to spend time in the Conqueror’s presence without disturbing him, to get to know him on a more personal level. As expected, it proved to be anything except easy—most of her time and effort were spent on actually _finding_ the man. Still, she persisted—and eventually, she made slow progress.

Their son merely observed without actively influencing anything and painstakingly tried to avoid being punished again.

Somewhere in the fourth month since the trial unexpected progress was made.

All human residents of the manor were settled into a sitting room and had been silently busying themselves with their own activities. Somehow, the family got onto the subject of the concept of Light and Dark. Lord Potter merely listened, his smile a touch indulgent.

At some point Lucius had turned the discussion into a lesson for his son. It was when he lectured Draco on the importance of keeping with traditions that Potter unexpectedly cut in.

“I don’t have any respect for wizarding traditions since I found out how they ruined my future.”

The conversation came to a grinding halt.

Potter continued uncaringly: “Although I’ll grant that it was more a collaboration of fate, destiny and death that screwed with my life.”

Draco whispered: “Will you tell us?”

Miraculously, the answer was yes.

* * *

All that is told— _lies_ , _stories_ , _rumours_ —will, however warped, hold some shards of the truth from which they were born. What terrible truths gave birth to this one?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did it. The storytelling starts here! _Technically_.
> 
> Has anyone noticed the themes of the chapters yet? Or that all the chapter titles follow the same rules? Or the commonality in the set-up of the chapters themselves?
> 
> Maybe you readers will only see it now that I've alerted you to the pattern... I wonder who, if anyone, figured it out witout help?


	7. Once upon time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Storytime starts here for real. All parts of The Story will be in bold, also in all future chapters.
> 
> EDIT: I'm still in the process of wrestling the tags into submission, so at the moment they are very liable to semi-constant changes. Know that I'll likely won't put characters that appear in The Story in the tags (to prevent spoilers). The characters in the fic, however, will have a spot amongst the tags, even if they show up in The Story.

The Vanquisher lazily leaned back in the armchair he occupied since a few hours ago. He had put away his reading material—some muggle book from what they could see—to focus on what he was about to tell.

“I will not start with the nonsense of ‘once upon a time’; this is not a fairy-tale,” he murmured, his smile bitter. “It does not end with ‘happily ever after’ either.”

Lucius shuffled his chair a bit closer, uncaring of how indigent it looked. He _absolutely_ wasn’t going to miss anything of this source of potential clues. Mother and son exchanged glances of wary anticipation, but kept quiet.

Potter took his time to start, but once he did the words came smoothly.

**“This story starts an age in the past. It starts with a boy, young and carefree, growing up in a village. He was the eldest of three siblings, raised by both parents in a happy environment.**

**The happiness wasn’t to last.**

**Tragedy befell the youngest child. Then the father lashed out at the perpetrators—of grief, of hatred—and broke the law in the process. The family had to make do without him from then on.**

**They moved to another village where life started anew.**

**The poor littlest child was permanently traumatized and remained bedridden, and so would never be able to go to school. The mother did not want to lose her precious child to a hospital and therefore she hid this child in the house.**

**Meanwhile, the boy had begun to brood. He had not been directly involved in the event that had turned his life upside down, but nevertheless he had been forced to stand by and watch—powerless to stop it. It had left its marks on him too.**

**A domestic accident involving the mother and her traumatized child proved to be the blow that put the family on the metaphorical edge of a cliff. She, regretfully, didn’t survive. Her child, however, did.**

**The two older siblings took on the care for the youngest, as well as the duties of the household. It proved to be a great burden of responsibility for the boy, who saw his many dreams and goals of the future hindered.**

**Then he made a friend. A young boy genius, just like him.**

**They played together, explored together, had discussions of all kinds.**

**They planned and plotted together.**

**Together, they decided, they would change the world.”**

The Lord of the manor stopped here, but the true ending was very much implied. It was a story that reeked of the birth of a Dark Lord, perhaps even two.

Lucius thought he knew what the connection to Lord Potter was. That pair of friends ultimately produced the Dark Lord Voldemort, somehow. It was the only logical conclusion. Perhaps one of them was _him_ , or maybe one or both mentored _him_. Lucius wouldn’t know, as his late Dark Lord had taken great care not to let any knowledge of his history be known.

Now that he thought about it, the Malfoy head could see why Lord Potter claimed fate, destiny and death had a hand in his pain. The prophecy about the boy hero came to mind, amongst many other circumstances big and small, both positive and negative, that he now thought were too unlikely to just come about by chance—and in such rapid succession too.

Draco understood that Potter had not planned on telling the whole story—that Potter had only on a whim decided to give them a bit on the origins of whatever it was that ultimately messed him up so badly. Still, Draco didn’t want it to end yet. The end of the story meant once more going back to the harsh reality. So he swallowed his fears and softly, tearfully, _weakly_ , pleaded for more.

This time the reaction he got wasn’t so favourable.

In the blink of an eye Lord Potter went from casually sitting to holding Draco up by his throat, choking him. The youngest Malfoy tried to keep his breathing even and light, and fought down the panic that threatened to overwhelm him. This side of his old classmate terrified him, no matter how many more confrontations occurred.

Harry Potter had grown since Hogwarts and it made him now only about an inch shorter than Draco. His physical strength had grown too, as evident by the way he held Draco up by the throat with one hand—unassisted by magic.

Draco fearfully cast a glance at Lord Potter’s face. _The smile_ was still there. In fact, he looked entirely at ease—as if he was having a chat with friends over a cup of tea (or coffee or whatever he’d prefer) rather than attempting to inflict psychical harm on his one-time rival. Not even a hint of the emotions that he _surely_ must be feeling—hatred, rage, irritation, _anything_ —were shown.

Since his reintroduction into Draco’s life Potter’s face firmly remained closed off while wearing the mask of a benignant saint. He had shown patience and _stillness_ so abundant it was nearing unnatural. And everything he planned to do or felt or thought, _everything_ , was hidden under that thrice-damned smile.

Before either of his parents could attempt to help him, the Malfoy heir found himself suddenly thrown down onto the hard floor, a foot descending onto his chest directly after. The air was knocked out of him by the impact and then once more by the pressure. Lord Potter gave him an extra wide _creepy_ smile before he let go of Draco, then left the room—completely soundless as always.

This Potter was a man of sudden mysterious disappearances and reappearances, utterly silent movement, creative uses of magic and unpredictable outbursts usually ending with his disappearance—absolutely not one of screaming or ranting in anger as so many people do, so to Draco it was no surprise that at the end of it, he didn’t have a clue as to what brought this instance of violence on. And chances where high that he likely never would find out.

That didn’t mean it wasn’t terribly _frustrating_. It was simply _expected_ and part of the routine.

* * *

‘Once upon a time’ is how fairy-tales start. It never applies to real life—if you try, at best you’ll be disappointed. At worst, it’ll devour you. Now that the tale has started, it’ll run its course until the last words have been spoken. And at the finish line _I_ will be waiting to see who has been devoured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are far from over... Where did Harry start his story? Who is this boy? So many questions, and who knows if there are readers that will work it out before the Malfoys do?
> 
> I upped the length of the chapters starting with this one, so it'll take longer to complete one now.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who took the time to read and/or left kudos (or bookmarked this work) so far. Anyone who has questions may ask them freely by posting a comment. I'll try to be thorough in answering them—or at least in explaining why I can't give away the answer... ^_-
> 
> Any comments in general are appreciated, I'm especially interested in reading your opinions on this fic and what you like about it (or as case might be; what you don't like at all). I use what people write in the comments to improve my writing in general and the quality of this fic in particular.
> 
> My thanks in advance to anyone kind enough to leave a comment.


	8. Four of love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few readers have let me know they recognised the characters from the Story. Don't fear that I messed up, though, for our other storytellers--the Malfoys-- still don't know! 
> 
> Most of the fun is in watching the Malfoys fumble around, anyway. All of them are working hard trying to solve the clues Harry dropped for them, while trying not to get crushed by the pressure. Poor Draco doesn't have it easy in this chapter.
> 
> There's a bit more reflection on Harry's behavior here too.
> 
> Until the Malfoys manage to convince Harry to tell them more, what bits they got last chapter is all they have to work with.

The story Lord Potter had told them the day before had given the Malfoy family much to think about.

They thought it was much like the new Potter to be so vague as to leave out time, places, genders and names. _Yes, there is no doubt that was deliberate on his part_ mused Narcissa.

She had established that Lord Potter’s whereabouts for today were simply untraceable, and with nothing better to do she had returned to the same sitting room they had all been in yesterday. Draco had found her there not soon after, and both proceeded to have a bit of mother-son time.

“Mother?” her darling son asked.

“Yes, Dragon?” she replied automatically.

The next words were a whisper: “How do you remain so strong always? Potter has changed so much... he cannot be reasoned with.”

It broke her heart to hear the great fear her child admitted to underneath those words. His countenance matched with what he must be feeling: drawn, pale, shaky, tense, afraid.

_Dreadfully tired._

“I am not always strong, my son,” she spoke honestly.

“Then how do you endure?” he asked again.

“It is either endure or perish.”

Draco flinched at her answer, but it was all she could give him. A terribly broken smile threatened to form on her face, but she fought it down, not wanting to upset him further. Her son gave her a look that told her he had caught her effort but was too worn to ask what it meant. The silence endured, and he looked away from her face to trace the lines of the carpet underneath them with his gaze.

“Draco.”

He looked up again at her address of him.

“Your father will likely never admit to this, but know he has many regrets about the choices he has made over the years.”

“Why are you telling me this? What good would it do _now_?”

Narcissa freely admitted she was more than slightly shocked by the near-hysterical laugh that bubbled up from Draco’s throat. The look of it on his young, _too old-looking_ face made her uncomfortable. He laughed and laughed, and then laughed some more. Soon, it was accompanied by tears, but laughing he was still.

For how sluggish time felt to both of them, the laugher might as well have lasted forever.

Narcissa could not remember the last time she had been physically affectionate with her son. But unused to it or not, the instincts of a mother demanded of her to offer it _now_ to her only child. They screamed at her that it was necessary, that it was needed, that it was the very minimum she should do.

And so she spread her arms to either side to make the universal sign representing the offer of comfort and safety. Within moments her son’s body collided with hers, his arms closed around her neck and he _held on_ with a desperation she had never seen in him before.

And then he _cried_.

She pondered.

Lord Potter was a living conundrum. Wearing a smile despite being anything but happy. Alive, for all that he was more ghost-like than human. Not making any impression in his presence nor leaving any imprint at the places he passed through. The only sounds he ever made were purposeful—like his voice— or not technically his—like the scraping of a chair over wood or the turning of pages of a book.

In the early days directly after the trial, before the fear had set in—called to life by Draco’s unfortunate action—there had been harsh words. There had been tempers flaring, insults hurled, rudeness displayed, discourtesy offered, words spoken that for all rights and purposes should have been offending at best. They certainly _had been_ _rage-inducing before_ , but now… they weren’t.

His mask was perfect.

Instead, it were little things that apparently strained his temper.

An accidental touch—like when Lucius unintentionally bumped into him when entering the dining room, and was plunged into a two day-long living nightmare for the offence. They still had no idea how Potter had managed _that._

A compliment they made—Narcissa still vividly remembered the feeling of raw skin put under too many _too strong_ cleaning charms for one of those.

Even a look in the wrong direction—on one instance of retaliation, father and son both had suffered under several overpowered shrinking charms applied to all the clothes they were wearing.

All acts either positive or at least not offending to the point of warranting retribution in the eyes of the majority of the wizarding population. The words that had started it all— “You really have changed. I do not remember you being like this in school, at all.”— weren’t even supposed to be offending. Every word—casual or not—was a possible last straw. Every sentence—more so if meant polite—a potential minefield.

What had once angered him _didn’t_ , and what had been perfectly civilised _was no longer safe_.

Even Lucius had openly admitted that this switch between the acts of peacekeeping and those of open warfare was too much for him.

Narcissa took another good look at the young man she held in her arms, head buried into her shoulder, quietly hiccupping. _Her_ young man. Her son.

“You should speak with your father,” she whispers softly into his ear. “He might be able to give you the answers that you seek, but do not know how to ask for.”  _Because I know I cannot give you these answers._

Narcissa felt her son nod into her shoulder. She made a mental note for herself to catch Lucius for a talk before Draco did.

Above all, she desperately prayed that Lord Potter didn’t get to Draco before she and her husband had him in a semblance of composure again.

For who could tell whether meeting _him_ broken wasn’t more dangerous than appearing before _him_ whole, the way polite had proved just as dangerous as offending?

 _He cannot be reasoned with_ indeed.

* * *

Love comes in fours: Storg—affection—for family, Philia—friendship—meant to connect to others, Eros—romance—returned by your significant other, and Agape—unconditional love—held for all. Once upon a time, Gryffindor’s Golden Boy held love in all forms. _Where did they go?_


	9. Pride will fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's slow going from here on out, as a new school year has started again and I have a busier schedule from here on out.
> 
> The tension is building in this chapter, and I'm sorry for providing a cliffy like this, but Harry and Lucius demanded it be this way... Thus I complied.

Lucius Malfoy was a proud man. He would be the first to admit this. He knew his own faults well. After all, it’s a weakness in itself to not know what could be exploited. And he had made a point of it to know everything his enemies could use, and then use it for his own goals.

He knew he had, for lack of a better expression, screwed up majorly. He had chosen to follow the Dark Lord all those years ago. He had then chosen to continue to obey when the Dark Lord returned. Time and again he had chosen the Dark.

And now, at end of the War, with the Light victorious, the Malfoy fortune was no more. The name of one of magical Britain’s most powerful families had now disappeared from the political scene alongside several others who had either fallen from grace or died out completely. Had Lord Potter not intervened when he had, Lucius himself would’ve been Kissed long before now. His son and wife would have been left to fend for themselves, very likely in Azkaban and on the streets respectively.

Despite the terror, the pain, the threat of _revenge_ , Lucius was thankful to Lord Potter for saving his life. His entire family owed their late lord's mortal enemy a life debt or two from that alone, without even taking into account the gifts of relative freedom, safety, comfort, or the debts from the War.

Had Lord Potter decided to add Dark to his title of Lord, he would’ve found three willing servants to accompany him on his path to domination had he bothered to ask the family. Of this, Lucius was certain. Their multitude of life debts—collectively _and_ individually—would not let them get away with any less.

It was why they didn’t resist more, why they meekly let themselves be handled so roughly.

Because they _knew_ they owed him, and they were anything but fools.

 _Although it is debatable in my case_ , Lucius half-joked to himself in the safety of his inner thoughts.

He had come to a conclusion after long days of observing and then hours of pondering in his room.

_Lord Potter is rapidly getting more wound up since the last two weeks._

With that knowledge, he made the decision to undertake a course of action he had long considered taking, but had been uncertain over—and set off towards the part of the house no-one but the owner frequented—or so he supposed. He fervently hoped to find the Lord’s personal chambers—and that attempting to speak with him on home ground would have a calming effect and not set off another outburst.

It was with that purpose and mind-set that the Malfoy ex-Lord—when he finally found the appropriate area to start his search—stumbled upon the sound of earth-shattering screams and wails and cries and _more screams_ loud enough to deafen and stun a person more effective than the appropriate spells could.

He wasted no time and ran towards the cacophony of sound, hoping that its existence didn’t mean Lord Potter had taken up torturing as his pastime, like the Dark Lord had.

The screaming was a clear beacon that lead him to a door, but Lucius barely paid attention to the specifics beyond the fact that behind it laid a bedroom—and the origin of the auditory storm.

What awaited him inside was a sight that shook the metaphorical ground under his feet.

It was Lord Potter lying in the only bed—in the throes of a vicious nightmare that had him screaming and crying himself hoarse. With how violently he was trashing about, it was a wonder he hadn’t thrown himself off the bed yet and—more than likely—getting injured in the process.

The Malfoy patriarch wasted not a moment and nearly threw himself onto the tormented youth in his haste to shake him awake. It was a task surprisingly harder than he expected, but _finally_ he got the black-haired Lord to wake and quiet.

Potter weakly sat up in bed, still shaking, with no composure to speak of. When the tear-stricken face was turned Lucius’ way and a pair of glistering, hollowed green eyes met one of old, battered grey, Lucius was struck by how _different_ the young Lord looked like _this_.

For once, there was no smile in sight.

Its absence was wholly _terrifying_.

Without the smile to bring a little life to his features, there was only the hollow darkness, the darkness that had now attained the descriptive epithet ‘devouring’. It had seeped from green eyes outwards, over his face, _drenching_ every detail. Lord Potter looked like a doll animated, a corpse gone wandering. As if his very soul had been bathed in darkness, painted in pain, shackled in place inside that body it belonged to, yet didn’t.

Lucius couldn’t exactly say Lord Potter was _broken_ —he still functioned, still lived. But he definitely wasn’t any manner of _whole_ either.

He hadn’t seen anything like it before. And he _had_ been a _Death Eater_. None of his victims—of which he had more than _plenty_ to compare—or his… _associates_ , deprived as most of them were, had ever seemed so tormented yet _deathly_ , the way the Vanquisher looked now—had that name ever sounded as apt as it did now?—quite capable of eliminating all that stood in his way with little effort despite all appearances of having been tortured beyond his limits. So skewed that even the insanity of his late sister-in-law could not quite compare to the warped mind that was Lord Potter’s, the madness he saw in said mind’s owner’s eyes—but also _contained_ , held restrained by force of will alone—no matter how twisted its origin.

A involuntary shudder went through Lucius’ body at seeing the proof of insanity.

* * *

The proverb goes: pride comes before a fall. Its truth has been proven time and again. The only question is who will be brought along on the way down. On that matter, the future looks bleak. A fall is imminent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our pure-blood aristocrat has gotten quite a scare here.
> 
> And to think he himself wanted it to go this route ( _and_ convinced Harry to back him up)... It must be ol' Lucius' sense of dramatics. Plus possibly a hidden streak of masochism.


	10. Enemy in sight

This child—for the youth was at that moment more a child than an adult—of darkness that was sat before Lucius was in a way beautiful—its fragile state right on the edge between sanity and insanity. Lucius wholeheartedly admitted that to him there’s always been a certain allure to the darkness of a victim, so different from the darkness of a tormenter.

He didn’t know what to do with himself, faced with the sight of the ever-elusive, enigmatic Lord Potter broken down in tears, deep mental scarring at the forefront of green eyes. It was heart-breaking to watch—as much as it was also _terrifying_ —even for Lucius, who has done many terrible things over his lifetime.

_What do I do?_

What was he to do? He, who had barely interacted with his own son until the latter had grown up enough to have an intelligent conversation with. Who didn’t so much take part in raising his son as he had been _sculpting_ him—moulding him to be the perfect heir, the way his own father had done with him. He, who knew that without Narcissa, their son would not have been _raised_ at all.

What was he to do?

The only thing he _did_ clearly recognise in the way Lord Potter held himself was the desire not to be touched. So he didn’t reach out.

“Malfoy.”

That single word was spoken in a hoarse whisper.

“Yes, sir?”

The older male smoothly slipped into the familiar formalities with barely a thought.

“What did you come here for?”

But Lucius shook his head. “That is of no importance at this time, my lord. Your wellbeing takes precedence.”

His young lord silently stared at him, clearly not knowing what to say to that. He still looked terrible, pale and weak, but the young man himself took no notice of neither the tears that were still rolling down his cheeks and chin, nor the trembling of his body. It was as if he had completely forgotten the state he was in.

The Malfoy family head suppressed a sad sigh. He had feared this—ever since the reality of the Final Battle had sunk in—that Potter was much too damaged to understand that the Malfoy family owed him many debts and—more importantly—were willing to pay them back in full.

Lucius had always prided himself on his ability to read people, and even back then he had deduced that Potter was much too used to being _used_ and not at all to being thanked, protected, cared for or even treated with respect. The thought that someone else could place his needs above theirs was completely foreign to Lord Potter, as evident by the blank look he wore when he stared at Lucius’ face.

“Tell me.”

Lord Potter had apparently shaken off his momentary confusion and made his demand in a flat, tired voice. The Malfoy patriarch had to suppress another sigh—this time of weariness. He recognised the futility of trying to withhold his Lord the desired information, and yielded to his will without fight.

“I had wanted to speak with you, my lord.”

Again the youth remained silent for many moments, until he finally asked: “What for?” It sounded resigned, a well-worn tone of voice that had been used many times.

_I can only begin to imagine how many times he must have had to deal with uncouth individuals that desire yet something else from him. In his eyes, I am likely no different._

The aristocrat did not let his thoughts show in his expression, knowing that they would likely be misinterpreted.

“I have… observed that you have grown increasingly agitated over the last fortnight and I hoped to inquire as to its cause.” Before the still faintly trembling, smile-less lord could respond, Lucius boldly continued. “But as I said earlier, this current matter takes precedence. Please, my lord, what troubles you so that you must suffer even at night?”

“Why… does it even matter?” was the breathless—so very _slow_ —answer. Lucius recognised the slight movements in Lord Potter’s face as attempts to put the mask he always wore back on.

 _I have to proceed very, very carefully now_ , he admonished himself.

“Do you perhaps mean to say: why does it matter to _you_?”

Lucius tried to speak the words as neutral as possible, to not let them sound judging or upset. The Gryffindor blinked but then inclined his head a fraction in acquiescence. “Why do you care?” he clarified with a soft puff of breath a moment later. “Why does it matter whether I sleep well or lie awake all night?”

“It matters,” Lucius began carefully, “because our fate is tied to yours, and because _we_ have still many debts owed— _to you_.”

“I realise that this is hard to understand for you,” he continued, “but the truth you desire, and so the truth you shall have, my lord.”

The Lord in question remained utterly silent and unmoving, in spite of the dishevelled appearance that still showed all signs of his earlier breakdown. At no point had the tears stopped their constant descent.

“…This is nothing new.”

At the aristocratic man’s questioning gaze, Potter waved his hand to indicate his own face. “This is just the first time anyone here noticed.”

“Truly?” murmured Lucius softly. It wasn’t a real question. “Are they nightmares?” Lucius didn’t really know why he was asking this—they couldn’t be anything else. To his surprise, it turned out to be a valid question anyway. Even more to his surprise, he received a true answer.

“Not all of them. Some are memories…” Lord Potter briefly looked away when he spoke the words, but soon returned his attention to Lucius’ face. “Others… are old fears, old regrets… Old dreams I could never fulfil.”

The blond by then _knew_ he had hit an unexpected mine of relevant information and waited patiently for the next piece of the puzzle.

“…However, most of them are _visions_.”

* * *

There is a big difference between an enemy in sight and enemy insight, despite the easily confusable names. The former allows you to keep an eye out for any unexpected actions, and react in time. The latter may help you stop actions before they begin. If you do it _right_ , that is.


	11. Shadows of past

_Visions?_

Lucius Malfoy was utterly confused. Visions generally meant seeing the future. Was his Lord a Seer? What terrible things could lie in the future that they fuelled nightmares intense enough to rival the events of the past? The possibilities alarmed him.

“Visions, my lord? Does the future look _that_ bleak?” _Is the world doomed?_

Try as he might, he could not stop himself from anxiously whispering the words. Even his shoulders—normally kept under rigid control—drooped a fraction in weariness. Thankfully, Lord Potter shook his head emphatically in the negative.

“No,” he said softly. “Not that kind of visions. They’re about the past.”

“The past?” Lucius echoed incredulously. _Is that even possible?_   “What nature of gift do you possess that makes this possible?”

“ _Malfoy_!”

The rebuke was sharp, reproachful—immediate. It was clear the blond had crossed a boundary that shouldn’t be touched—he hastily backtracked in response.

“My sincere apologies, sir. I realise that was out of line.” Standing next to his lord’s bed as he had been during the entire conversation, the elder Malfoy subserviently bowed his head deep for the figure still sitting with his back resting against the headboard. In this position he couldn’t see his young lord and it left his nape exposed for attack by the same youth, but it was a risk he had to take.

He was playing a dangerous game that may well end in his death—only a step above gambling with his life under extremely bad odds. But it was either this, or give up and wait for the end, which was when Lord Potter would finally deem to claim his due in revenge. Of those facts, Lucius was perfectly aware—but he definitely refused to give up and surrender without a fight.

It took some time before Lord Potter allowed him to lift his head, during which Lucius’ posture had likely been scrutinised for the slightest hint of insincerity. He couldn’t be sure, but it was what he himself would’ve done in this situation. Finally, permission was given with a small hand movement that the aristocrat caught in his peripheral vision.

When Lucius once more stood tall, he tried again—though this time, he was much more cautious.

“Please forgive me, my lord, but I am afraid I still do not understand.” He swallowed to get rid of the lump that was lodged in his throat. “If you do not mind my asking… What, exactly, do these visions of the past imply? My Lord?”

He hadn’t really _looked_ at Lord Potter’s face since the young man had gestured to his own features to accompany his words—it felt so long ago. Now that Lucius truly _looked_ again, started to pay attention, what his look was met with was the familiar smile that just wouldn’t die.

 _So it has come back, I had wondered what took it so long_ , was the thought that flitted absently through him before he recovered from the unexpected change of the battleground.

Before, he was dancing on a delicate line between pushing Lord Potter for information and offering support to an obviously distraught, battered young lord. The moment Potter had regained control of himself, the rules had changed; it was now instead a matter of staving off impending fits of rage while gently persuading the Light’s hero to respond frankly to Lucius’ inquiries. That last part was the most important, but still hard enough to accomplish without the additional danger of possibly incensing the Lord of the house.

One more look at the face that the Malfoy ex-lord had seen stripped of its mask only minutes ago bolstered the wizarding aristocrat’s resolve to succeed. The current state of Lord Potter’s features radiated sorrow, and for some reason the smile he wore only enhanced the feeling.

It was a true conundrum; a smile—normally an expression of joy, provoked sadness instead.

However, the Malfoy head couldn’t allow himself to dwell on it. Lucius forcibly returned his attention to the task at hand. He had still not received an answer to his query—and he silently worried what it could mean.

But when he looked closer, he noticed that Lord Potter’s features had a pensive air about them.

_Ah, so he is merely distracted. Overwhelmed, likely._

Thus, he pushed again.

“My lord, could you please explain the nature of your visions to me?”

This time the reaction was a few blinks of green eyes, followed by a beat of silence—and then a soft huff of breath. The pensive mood changed to mildly exasperated, but this latest attempt did the trick.

“Fine.” Another huff. “They are the echoes of the visions I had during the war.”

An answer. Finally. Lucius knew he may not understand now yet, but he _will_.

“When I had the original visions, they showed me what Voldemort saw, did, thought, _felt_ at that time.”

A faint hint of disgust seeped through the mask Lord Potter wore. Lucius had the impression that the experiences, and therefore the returning memories too, had been highly unpleasant.

It explained a lot… but gave birth to as many questions.

“Enough, Malfoy.”

Lucius hastily shut his mouth when he was interrupted before he could even begin to speak.

“I have grown weary with your incessant questioning.”

Somehow, the time between Potter’s seventeenth birthday and the trial had done a lot of good for his vocabulary, mused part of Lucius’ brain. He wondered how _that_ had happened.

Lord Potter himself, however, had no such thoughts that occupied him—and went straight for the kill.

“Tell me, Mafoy…” The young hero slowly pulled his legs up and hung forwards, placing his elbows on either knee as if he were sat at a table. Lucius silently watched as Lord Potter purposefully interlocked his fingers one by one until he could lean his chin on the joined hands. The innocent face with the kind smile he wore did nothing to lessen the predatory manner in which he seemed to _loom_ over the older man before him, despite their respective positions. The feeling of intimidation on the aristocrat’s part was only increased by the way the youth _drawled_ his next words:

“Have you gotten what you came for?”

* * *

Past, present, future. The past lies behind us. It cannot be changed, isn’t supposed to be changed either. Born of future, having once been present; the past is linked to us by memories. Their shades keep returning to haunt the survivors.


	12. Plans of present

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As evident by the existence of this chapter, I finally completed the next part of A Story Told. I apologise to everyone I've made to wait, but this piece is a very important event so I took my time making sure it's been done _right_.
> 
> On a side note, this story reached 500 hits while I was busy writing this chapter! I really hadn't expected that to happen yet, but here we are. Thank you, readers!  
> I also believe that with the addition of this chapter, AST will have gone over the 10,000 words mark. It's very fitting to have that happen shortly after the aforementioned milestone on the number of hits.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy this new chapter of AST.

Despite the way his heart was beating a rather fast and heavy paced rhythm in his ears, Lucius managed to quirk an eyebrow and respond in a more or less casual manner.

“Truthfully? No, I have not.”

His body was screaming at him to flee, to cower, to _move away_ from the threat, but he quashed the many impulses with ruthless efficiency born from years of practice. If he were to show any sign of weakness now his chances of success, not to mention _survival_ , would plummet.

No, he would bend but not break, like the story of the reed that survives what the oak cannot.

He had originally come with the sole purpose of uncovering the reason or reasons behind Lord Potter’s increasing restlessness, but had instead stumbled upon a treasure-trove of hidden insights over the course of one conversation. The elder wizard contemplated whether he would actually execute the plan he had been shaping and ripening during the entire exchange, a fruit of the imaginary tree growing in the rich soil of his mind.

He knew it would be a highly dangerous card to play.

_But then again, every interaction with this person is potentially hazardous for my health._

Lucius purposely bit on his tongue to hold back the sardonic smile that wanted to appear on his face. The taste of blood soon filled his mouth, and that helped keep his cool even more than the pain did.

“Sir, would you allow me one request?”

Lord Potter seemed startled by the question. His eyes were slightly wider than normal, and his smile was as small as Lucius had ever seen it. It took at least a full minute before he nodded, mutely, to allow the elder wizard to continue.

“Thank you, my lord.”

A blink of green eyes accompanied by a movement of the head that just fell short of becoming a headshake answered his worlds, as if to say _don’t thank me just yet._

_I thank you for giving the chance, not for granting it._

_Still, it would be prudent to give thanks again once I have achieved my goal._

_If I achieve my goal._

He took the time to think over the next words carefully, weighing them like brilliant but fragile gems meant to become centrepieces for expensive jewellery.

“Would you tell us more, Sir?”

A raised eyebrow prompted the aristocrat to expand upon his words at once.

“Having witnessed your… vision, I would feel much at ease were I certain that your nightly discomfort is allayed to some degree.

Am I correct in assuming that there is currently no one privy to the details of your pains and sorrows?”

Much like the young lord before him had, the ex-lord accompanied his words with a _look_ and a raised eyebrow.

The recipient didn’t show any reaction to the mild non-verbal reproach, but the meaning of his silence was clear. Lucius continued his speech.

“With the situation as it is, it is clear to me there is no one to accommodate you. Not a soul privileged enough to support you in times of duress. I have no doubt that at least one person, likely more than one, must have told you of the merits of sharing your troubles with others. And yet, at present you have no such confidant.

In this light, I urge you to take action in this area. I humbly offer—”

“Why should I hand _you_ the keys to my weaknesses?”

They both knew that the _you_ implied more than just Lucius alone. The elder wizard was also fully aware that Potter knew what Lucius had tried to suggest. And that the young lord knew he knew.

But that wouldn’t stop him.

“May I remind you that _our_ circumstances are perfectly suitable to your needs? Completely isolated, wandless, dependant, owing you multiple life debts, standing on the lower moral ground, magically… inferior. ” Merlin, it _hurt_ to even speak that last word, but he ploughed on: “Most of all, a _willing_ audience whose judgement of you does not matter.”

And _that_ too was a fact; between Lord Potter and the Malfoys there’s no love lost regardless of the sky-rocketed pile of debts. They weren’t his friends or allies—had never been—thus any disapproval of his actions, of his choices, would have neither impact nor meaning.

Concerning their present relationship, they both were perfectly aware of their respective positions.

Jailor and prisoner.

Avenger and transgressor.

Lord and serf.

Master and pet.

Predator and prey.

A mixture of everything of the above, and then some more. Lucius really hadn’t needed to list any of the advantages his Lord had, but he chose to do so to serve his momentary needs. By reminding Lord Potter of the division of power in this house, the aristocrat emphasized that the pure-blood family was powerless against their lord and, therefore, harmless.

Not worth his time to oppress further.

Useful for serving his needs.

There was no danger of them striking against him—they were anything but stupid enough to do so as long as the chances of any success were nearly zero.

And the chances of _that_ improving in the future were even lower.

Lucius detected a tiny twitch in the young man’s smile. For once, he had no idea what it could mean, but he hoped it was a positive sign. He felt like he stood on the edge of a cliff, debating on taking that final step.

_Like a Gryffindor. Only for this one time I do not mind acting like one._

“Your… narrative the other day, please continue. Let us share the weight of your burdens, so that you may find yourself relieved of them, even if only for a short time.”

_One jump towards the unknown, tumbling off the edge. Falling into the maws of blackness._

_There’s no guarantee that there will be light at the end…_

“Very well.”

_But there is hope._

* * *

Past, present, future. The present takes place now. It changes with everything we do, with every decision made. Born of future, giving birth to past; the present is linked to us by consciousness. It is where we reside, forever trapped inside.


	13. Visions of future

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been very quick with writing this chapter. Must be because the last one gave me so much trouble... I had the events of this one clear in my head. A little ways below it's storytime again after having had nothing for... six chapters, I believe.  
> For the people who've forgotten: bold text is for the stories Harry tells. 
> 
> It has also somehow become a story in a story in a story for a bit (or maybe I should say stories in the Story in this story)--but you'll see that later during reading. I'd love to hear your theories on the obvious and not-so-obvious meanings of the Story. 
> 
> Anyway, happy halloween tomorrow for those who celebrate it.

Narcissa was feeling hopeful for the first time in months. Her husband, the love of her life, had brought excellent news come morning two days ago.

She couldn’t fathom how he had done it, but he had convinced Lord Potter to share at least some of his inner troubles with them somewhere in the near future.

The green-eyed youth had kept his distance so far. She supposed he was watching, observing their reactions to the unusual development. Or possibly waiting for the right moment, once he had laid down for himself what he had to say. Only during mealtimes was Potter even remotely approachable, but it was more of a natural consequence than a conscious decision.

Either way, he was understandably cautious.

Narcissa understood.

Her eyes swept along the long formal dining table they were all seated at. Aside from the house-elves, there were only four occupants of the manor and at that moment all of them were there. Lord Potter sat at one of the wide sides and all three Malfoys at the opposite side. To Narcissa’s right was Draco, to her left; Lucius.

Narcissa herself had insisted on being in the middle, right in front of the Lord, all those months ago when they had had a meal for the first time. It meant her husband and son, the ones Lord Potter had the most animosity with, would be at a slightly greater distance while she—who didn’t have as much a negative relation with him—was closest. It had proved to be an excellent decision so far.

Not a word had been spoken since the start of dinner, except for the words of thanks that Lord Potter had given to the house-elves that had brought the food.

It was a dinner full of tension. But it could be worse. They’d had worse.

At least there hadn’t been an _incident_ yet.

But she was sure, instinctively, that something would happen before long. Therefore, she would watch, wait and be ready.

By the time dessert was served things had settled down somewhat. The tension had eased to such a point that the atmosphere could almost be called relaxed. It wasn’t, not really, but all circumstances considered it came closest of all to being comfortable.

When the remnants of the meal were cleared away Lord Potter stayed seated. He had been staring into nothing since he had sat down to eat and it was only when the last clinking of the tableware had faded into nothing that he seemed to wake up from the haze of his thoughts.

“Do you still stand by your decision?” he asked without preamble as he turned to look her husband in the eye.

“Absolutely,” replied Lucius promptly.

Narcissa could see the conviction in Lucius’ eyes and judging by the way he resolutely stared the young Lord down, he fervently willed the Hero to see it as well.

The stare-down apparently shifted something in Lord Potter’s mood because he nodded in response and looked away. He then summoned a house-elf and asked for plain water, which he got moments later. Narcissa had a glass of that as well, while Draco whisperingly requested pumpkin juice. Lucius opted out of his normal alcoholic drink and ordered honeywater for himself instead.

The drinks helped them settle into calmness and soon enough all four were ready to start.

“There is too much to tell for one evening,” Lord Potter murmured at last, “so we’ll have to make due with setting aside some time every once in a while for the foreseeable future.”

The crystal glass in his hands softly clinked repeatedly when he absently swirled the water inside around. He stared at the patterns it made.

“Do not mistake this for anything it isn’t. I will tell what I feel like telling and it will likely not be the complete picture.”

“We understand,” Narcissa answered before Lucius could.

_We understand that it may stop any time, that there is no set plan for the immediate future. We understand that we will have to put the pieces in the right place ourselves._

_We may well understand better than he does._

And then Lord Potter began speaking.

**“Time passed, and the two grew ever closer, close enough to cross the boundary between friendship and love.**

**It gave new meaning to their lives. Not that they gave up their plans.**

**Still, in between plotting they liked to enjoy reading tales of times long past. Of heroics, of tragedy, of great deeds that may have been made up, but no one knew the truth of.**

**There was one that remained their favourite, one that spoke of death, fate and three artefacts lost to time.**

**In all their brilliance and their genius, both grew ever more arrogant. They spoke of taking action where others failed to do so, for the betterment of all, even devising their motto on this idea.**

**Then, one day, the second sibling confronted them. They didn’t react well.**

**As you might expect, the resulting fight between the three ended in tragedy.**

**The littlest child—so pure of mind—tried to intervene, but fell prey to the crossfire.**

**That was the end of the pair’s relationship, but the true beginning of the chain of tragedy that would seal the fate of many more people.**

**The rest, as they say, is history.”**

Lord Potter was an excellent storyteller. Narcissa wondered why she hadn’t noticed this fact the previous time.

He was able to engage his audience, draw them completely into the story. It was a true mark of his skill that he could weave an intriguing tale with so few words—and yet hide so many secrets in between the lines that they could be _felt_ , but not easily found.

She found herself more impressed with each word that tumbled from his lips.

_If moments like these are to be repeated in the future, I could get used to this._

* * *

Past, present, future. The future lies before us. It changes constantly, though we won’t know how until later. Giving birth to present, then becoming past; the future is linked to us by dreams. We envision its form but never fully understand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't help myself and named the last three chapters as a set. Hopefully it hasn't gotten the feeling of being forced.
> 
> Still, I personally think that it's very appropriate. Chapters 11, 12 and 13 deal respectively with echos of Harry's visions, Lucius plans and an arrangement that isn't likely to change anytime soon. Past, present and future.
> 
> I'm a big fan of theme naming, as you can see.


	14. Knowledge is power

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and here we'll get some character development for Draco. I'm sorry if any of you expected Narcissa first, but I've only come up with the next developments fairly recently and Draco just fits better. Narcissa will get her own time to shine later.
> 
> Storytime will get more frequent so expect the next part in about two chapters (unless I change my mind, that is).

In the otherwise deserted massive library a lone figure was seen browsing through the many books in the semi-darkness. The tell-tale white-blond hair, while in other circumstances very helpful, did not at all help much to establish the identity of the person in question, given that there was more than one person—all related to one another—at the manor. He or she was human without a doubt, and must certainly be one of the three Malfoys in residence. It was only when a house-elf stopped by to light the many candles that had gone out since the last time one of them had checked, that the face of the library visitor became discernible.

Draco was fascinated. There were so _many_ books. Rows upon rows and shelves upon shelves filled with them as far as he could see. Hogwarts’ library was tiny in comparison to this one. The main library of his childhood home, Malfoy Manor, couldn’t hope to measure up either—not even if the contents of the few smaller personal libraries where added to the total count.

He couldn’t hope to fully comprehend the actual size of this behemoth of a library, but he knew there was nothing like it in existence—certainly not in Britain, quite possibly not in the world either.

Lord Potter had ignored all questions on where the library—or more specifically, the contents—came from, but Draco had his suspicions.

The Potter family was rumoured to have a decently sized library. Draco wouldn’t know himself given the bad relations between his family and the Potters. Or _Lord Potter_ , considering his old classmate was the last of his line as well as its Lord.

Then there was the Black family who _definitely_ had a sizable collection—in every sense of the word—of books, tomes and scrolls; mostly on the dark arts, but also on other types of magic. It wouldn’t have surprised Draco if the Blacks had possessed much, _much_ more than they had openly claimed to have. _Paranoid bastards._

He conveniently forgot that he was technically also a Black through his mother.

That very same Black family had died out in the male line in the last war, with the last Lord naming his godson as the successor. Incidentally, that same godson was Harry Potter, making him a double Lord. Part of this library’s collection had to have come from the two lines Lord Potter inherited from.

 _He must have emptied the vaults of all written material and placed it here_ , the Malfoy heir mused.

Normally, only a portion of a family’s collections would be placed into the family library, secret library or personal libraries. Rarely if ever did families put everything they owned on display like that.

_Though it cannot quite be called ‘being on display’ with the library here being so large and vast. And it’s not like there are ever visitors here._

Since their forced relocation to the manor, none of the Malfoys had ever seen a single person—aside from a healer that one time and the Lord of the land himself. Even the manor’s _name_ wasn’t known to them. Draco idly wondered for a moment if it actually _had_ a name. Did the library he was in now not have a name either?

Which brought him back to his earlier theorizing.

But even then, with all vaults emptied to fill the bookshelves, two lines’ worth of gathered works would not by any stretch of the imagination be able to fill every shelf here. Where did the rest come from?

Draco thought he knew.

After the first fall of the Dark Lord, many family lines had dwindled to less than a handful of members, if they hadn’t been wiped out altogether. This created many situations where witches and wizards had no immediate family to leave their possessions to. Being as closely related to one another as most wizarding families were, it didn’t automatically mean they got along. Case in point: the Weasley and Malfoy families, related through the Blacks, yet have an ongoing feud between them that’s become legendary.

 _Many magicals who were the last of their line must have named Potter as their inheritor. Especially in the aftermath of the two wars they would be motivated to choose the Boy-Who-Lived as their_ _beneficiary to thwart other families—or worse, the ministry—from seizing it all. Their collective books have filled the library here._

He nodded to himself in satisfaction. Yes, that theory made sense.

Previous problem solved, the young man’s thoughts drifted to the past year’s events, despite his efforts not to.

How many things have changed since then, especially the three months he’d spent in the manor.

The new year was approaching soon. There was just a few days left before New Year’s Eve.

Draco wasn’t sure he looked forward to it. Because of his hesitance and uncertainty he preferred not to think about it. In fact, it was why he had taken to spending his time here, pondering over any questions he randomly came across.

He repeatedly caught himself hoping that next year would be better. That he and his remaining family might come out of this time of hardship alive. Sometimes, he allowed himself to pray in the blackness of the night, when his thoughts kept him awake. He would pray in utter silence to the old gods of past, to magic itself, to the world that had struck back at him for his sins.

At any other time, he would not allow himself to examine his own feelings of desperation. So, Draco instead tried to concentrate on finding the next question.

The young aristocrat glanced around anew, superficially skimming over the immediate surroundings, taking in the many books on the shelves again.

_How many families did it take to fill it all?_

Draco didn’t bother trying to answer that one. Too much work, not enough chance of success, too little gain. If he ever learned the answer, he’d be happy with it, but it was no skin off his back if that never happened. There were much more interesting things to learn from the book-filled surroundings. 

Some things just weren’t worth the effort to know.

* * *

“Knowledge is power,” Merlin had once said to his student. Where brute power fails, knowledge prevails. You three, amass the knowledge, hunt the clues before they are separated to drift off in the winds of time. Hurry, or you may not survive the end of this tale.


	15. Words are weapons

Over the last few days Draco had gone through many books of the library. Slowly, he drifted away from his pursuit of knowledge solely to distract himself with and began searching for answers to the riddles Lord Potter had presented them with.

To his own amazement, Draco had found himself a burgeoning investigator. He shouldn’t have been surprised about it, but he was. He _had_ found answers to his many questions and he had done so fairly easily too.

Draco just had a knack for gathering the clues and slotting the pieces into place.

Had he known about its existence, he likely excitedly would have thought of himself as a detective. However, he wasn’t familiar with muggles, let alone muggle occupations, and there existed no magical equivalent. The closest concept was a researcher, but their image as dull inhabitants of stuffy labs did not make it an exhilarating prospective job.

Still, despite the negative associations with his skill, Draco was mostly glad he could do something useful. Both of his parents were master manipulators who had polished their techniques over a period of many years, several generations of Slytherins and one Dark Lord.

Yet he, as their son and heir, just wasn’t prepared or experienced enough for the type of challenge the current situation was.

It was a fact that Draco didn’t, _couldn’t_ measure up to his parents, not yet. He wasn’t hardened enough, he was too young yet, he’d missed out on a lot of lessons he should have had in the chaos of the war. There was talent, yes, a lot of it too, but it hadn’t had a chance to develop, to properly grow.

And in this new war of ever-changing rules and grounds, the current Malfoy heir was useless. A burden, even.

That stung.

He knew it was the truth, but still. It hurt.

So when he found out this hitherto unknown but potentially useful talent, the young man was delighted. The moment he’d realised that he just _might_ have a chance at solving the big puzzle that was Potter, he had even needed several minutes to take it all in.

He might just be able _to do it_.

This vast library where he had fled to for escape became his salvation in a different way than he’d expected. It became a place of _answers_ , of possibilities.

Of chances.

And he was ever so thankful for that.

Immediately, Draco began searching. Answering random questions was well and good, but in the end it was of little value. This would be his first real mystery to solve—something with actual meaning. Could he do it? Draco himself earnestly thought he had a chance. Not a big chance, but _a_ chance.

_Which is better than not having anything at all._

First it was necessary to gather his thoughts, find out exactly what he would research. Draco’s excellent memory was a tremendous help with this, as it always was with all things similar to studying. He could recall every word of the tale his childhood rival had spun so far.

The story of the two genius boys who became friends and then lovers, whose love was shattered when one of the boys’ youngest sibling fell to stray curses and presumably died.

Draco couldn’t take his mind off one simple single sentence that didn’t sound all that important.

Somehow, the words **“the rest, as they say, is history”** vividly stood out.

What meaning did they have?

Why would their later lives be ‘history’?

Did that mean they had become famous, even separated as they were?

Were they already dead at this time?

For now, Draco had to make assumptions and try to somehow fill in the blanks with facts later. He decided that, yes, both of the boys would become famous. Why else would Potter take care to especially mention that the rest—of their lives, likely—is _history_? For that man, every word said had a purpose, held a special meaning. Some of them had more than one purpose or more than one meaning, the Slytherin knew. The blond young man had vowed to never forget it.

So they were famous. Right.

What about now?

Were they still famous _now_?

It was very possible that the pair used to be famous in their time, but that didn’t mean they were still known now. Draco had more-or-less subconsciously skipped the pondering of whether the boys had already died. That one word; _history_ , said it all. _They_ were _history_ , thus the logical conclusion was that both had by now passed beyond the veil.

That same word, history, once again proved to be his answer. They had both become history, in other words: both had _become a part of history_. That meant that in one way or another, proof of their existence had survived.

_You can’t say that they have become history, otherwise._

As for their identities, Draco had no clue. He could search for information based on what he had now, but that was unlikely to bring results anytime soon. At this point he could make no further guesses with even halfway decent reliability. The probabilities of being wrong had simply become too high to attempt.

The young Malfoy decided to try another path for now. What else had the black-haired lord mentioned?

Anything about the three siblings was no good. There was too little information, too vague specifics—and how had Potter, that sly bastard, managed to create _that_ oxymoron _and_ get it past the radars of three listening Snakes? All three were well-practiced manipulators, finely attuned to subterfuge, and _Slytherins_.

Wasn’t Potter meant to be the Gryffindor here?

Where had he gotten the skills to conceal the obvious and feed the surroundings the obscure?

Draco actually had to practice several occlumency exercises to suppress his frustration. He _had_ to keep his temper in check or things could go horribly wrong. That was a harsh lesson learnt from the war that had cost him much before he had finally realised the need for it. Now, it had served him well in this house.

With how much practice he got and the constant _need_ for it, Draco’s methods had grown much more effective. Thus, it wasn’t long before he was calm again.

Still, he was quite tired.

_I think I’ll take a break for now, have a bite to eat, and continue later._

He promptly translated words into actions.

* * *

As surely as knowledge is power, words have power too. It doesn't matter if everyone is thinking it. _Don't say the words._ Words are weapons. They blast big bloody holes in the world. And words are bricks. Say something out loud and it starts turning solid. Say it loud enough and it becomes a wall you can't get through. Therefore, to avoid walls, don’t speak the words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had trouble naming this chapter. A lot of titles were possible (feel free to speculate/guess what themes or wordings I considered), but I finally settled on this. However hard it was to decide, it fit perfectly once I had made my choice. 
> 
> As a direct result of the naming-issues, it was also hard to create the end piece of this chapter. I ended up using a quote from Richard Kadrey and I _may_ have mangled it a bit in the process of trying to make it easier to read (i.e. shorter) without losing the essence of the words. 
> 
> That quote also happens to be one of my favorites, which made it considerably harder to trim...  
> In the end, most of the end piece consists of the quote anyway. -_-;
> 
> Anyway, I hope everyone has fun reading this fic regardless of my antics.


	16. A thousand-mile journey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that at first glance it seems that I've deviated from the usual three-word titles, but I haven't really. General grammar rules state that words connected by a hyphen (sometimes incorrectly called a dash) count as a single word.
> 
> Therefore, the title of this chapter still conforms to the standard. :)
> 
> Just to let you know.

It was several hours after his self-imposed break that Draco finally made more progress. He had dropped the previous line of thinking for now and was meticulously going through the words almost one by one. He had almost given up hope on getting any more clues from the two stories he had—until he _finally_ had a thought that gave him a new lead.

_I wonder what story it was that the boys liked so much?_

With nothing else to go on, he figured it was the only thing that might offer something of an answer at this point. Draco dredged up the words that had been spoken and examined their contents again.

**“Still, in between plotting they liked to enjoy reading tales of times long past. Of heroics, of tragedy, of great deeds that may have been made up, but no one knew the truth of.”**

Yes, the longer he thought about it, the more he was convinced that _this_ was the next step. That bastard of a storyteller—his mother would have washed out his mouth for the word, but nothing else fit his feelings on the bloke—wouldn’t have put such a seemingly useless detail in without a purpose. Now, what more did he say on the subject?

Draco recalled the next words:

**“There was one that remained their favourite, one that spoke of death, fate and three artefacts lost to time.”**

Once again, certain words started to reverberate in his mind. They almost rung like bells, clamouring for their turn, beckoning him to pay them attention. Draco gladly obliged.

The young Malfoy had grown better at spotting the cues hidden in the words. In his honest opinion—born from the talent that was still being honed—the young Lord Potter was a more than worthy opponent for this game of riddles and hidden layers. Every time Draco though he had Potter—or Potter’s mysteries—figured out, it turned out that there was yet more concealed underneath, or inside, or on the side, skewing the total picture once found and then again when solved.

 **“Tales of times long past”** that **“no one knew the truth of.”**

Three things were immediately apparent to Draco’s now more experienced eye. One: the tales—including that favourite story—described real events, but didn’t seem to be. Two: in that time there was nobody who knew that. Three: Potter likely knew the truth of at least _that story_.

Now, if Draco could only find out what story it was...

That single story that **“spoke of death, fate and three artefacts lost to time”** , according to Potter.

Draco knew several tales and children’s stories about death off the top of his head and even more about fate. A lot of stories featured artefacts in one way or another too. And to make things _easier_ , there was _a lot_ of overlap here and there, on a scale that was simply not manageable.

So where was Draco supposed to begin?

How was he supposed to find that one story combining all three fairly common elements, which was also a true story, unbeknownst to the general population—amongst the sea of tales going around Britain, let alone the world?

_Nobody said that the pair was British, so it does not necessarily have to be a story only heard in Britain._

For now, Draco saw no other option than to go through the information at hand. This library had plenty of research material, therefore he figured that the chances of the required information being amongst them were quite good.

It would likely take a long time to get through them all, but if he let himself be discouraged simply by having to work hard for a long time, nothing would ever be solved, or found.

Determined, he reached for the first book to start his journey through the many worlds of the written word.

Only a scant distance away, Narcissa was watching her child stand up to the challenge of his life. Her heart was light with the lifting of a burden.

Her Dragon would be alright now. He had found something he could do, weapons to fight with. Something to give him support should all else fail.

This, this would be his strength, his trump card, his way to gain an advantage on this battlefield.

She wholeheartedly approved of this development.

The Malfoy matriarch quietly turned and left the library. The sight from just now was burned into her mind and had yet to disappear from her surface thoughts. She held it close—kept focusing on the image until she swore it was imprinted on the backs of her eyelids.

Her spouse had his specialty in politics.

Her son had now found his talent in tracing hints.

She was not without comparable talent herself—being finely attuned to others’ emotions in her case—but she still felt a touch downtrodden. While her husband had already gained ground on the young Lord looming over them all, and her child was currently amassing relevant knowledge to serve their future manoeuvres well, the results gained with Narcissa’s own speciality were still lacking.

Her many hours spent in the presence of the Gryffindor Lord had had only little effect so far. She had known from the beginning that it would be slow going, but that didn’t make her feel better.

Narcissa now knew it would take a long time, longer than she had thought. She was convinced more so with every moment she spent on it.

Lord Potter seemed to be… _lacking_ somehow in the emotional department, she concluded. Trust came almost impossibly slow. She couldn’t make sense of his emotions in general. His reactions to almost anything would be called strange at best. She couldn’t forge a connection like this.

Narcissa would vehemently deny it until her dying day, but truthfully speaking; she was beginning to get desperate. _Great Merlin, what path have I put myself on? Have I set myself up for failure?_

_Or—have I inadvertently chosen right?_

* * *

Have you realised that journeys, no matter their length, begin with the same—first—step? Lao-tzu knew what he meant when he wrote the words describing it. To accomplish _anything_ , you have to make a journey of some sort. To start that journey, you have to take the first step or you won’t get anywhere.


	17. Road to hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've especially aimed at updating today. As mentioned in this chapter, New Year's Eve is Tom Marvolo Riddle's birthday. (Happy birthday, Tom!) The timeline of the fic (yes, I have it all worked out in my notes) happens to coincide with the date of today, but don't expect it to last.
> 
> I'm gonna stop giving predictions as to when the next part of the Story comes up... it never works out the way I plan.
> 
> Happy belated Christmas and also happy new year, everyone! I'll see you in the new year!

It was a number of days later that New Year’s Eve had arrived.

There were no specific plans for that day. In fact, not a word on the subject had been spoken between any of the inhabitants of the manor. Nobody had though to do so. In fact, Christmas—or alternatively; Yule—had come and gone by without any sort of recognition whatsoever.

Despite the complete lack of concrete plans or even tentative agreements, all wizards and one witch made their way to the main living room that afternoon, to arrive there—inexplicably—at approximately the same time.

It wasn’t that strange for the Malfoy family to meet one another somewhere without actively planning to. They’d had numerous similar occurrences before at Malfoy Manor. Living in a manor of that size with only three people (the house-elves didn’t count—they never showed themselves without a summons, anyway) for most of one’s life tended to produce certain subconscious instincts; helping seek out other people when in need of human interaction.

The real surprise was Lord Potter’s sudden presence when he ghosted through the doorway, his true expression, as usual, inscrutable under that saintly mien and _fake-yet-genuine_ smile.

He remained completely unperturbed under the open-mouthed stares and then the overt scrutiny he received when he calmly made his way to a sofa and, uncharacteristically, plopped down inelegantly—resembling the way a marionette would if all its strings had been cut.

The three wizarding aristocrats needed several moments more before they regained the clarity of mind to offer greetings to the Gryffindor Lord, who, in that same time frame, had pulled himself up into a half-slouching, half-sitting position, leaning sideways onto the nearest armrest.

Lucius was carefully observing the double Lord, noting the apparent fatigue of his posture and the way his prowl was more pronounced than usual. The hint of a drawn countenance that Lucius detected underneath Lord Potter’s usual air of indifference, combined with clearly manufactured good humour; that worried the elder wizard most—on more than one level.

It was clear that the young Lord had just returned to the manor, judging by—among other things—the tiny specs of ash on the sides of his fine, deep blue formal robes. He usually never wore formal clothing to begin with, preferring instead a mix of muggle and wizarding attire that emphasised mobility and comfort.

Narcissa thought it likely that the dark-haired youth had attended a ministry function of some sort for the occasion. From what she knew about him, little as it was, he likely was nowhere near fond of them. The apparent bad mood he was in was as good an indicator as any that it hadn’t been an activity for his enjoyment.

Draco didn’t dare try to draw conclusions yet because—true to his new disposition—he wanted to observe first.

The three Malfoys adapted quickly to the new situation after that and tried their best to ensure their lord felt comfortable. At first they tried to gently draw him into the conversation, but when he proved unresponsive, they switched tactics and left him alone so he could listen to theirs.

Lucius and Narcissa chatted mainly, while Draco sometimes added something to the conversation. Their audience quietly listened to the exchange from his side of the room, and watched—until his eyes slipped shut, making him look as if fallen asleep. He clearly wasn’t, though: his shoulders were much too tense, his posture still too much upright. There was no _peace_ in his bearing.

Even so, the talking continued, not stopping for more than mere moments of pause each time.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the tension began to leave the tanned youth on the sofa. Well into the evening, a sigh so heavy it seemed made of vaporised lead escaped him.

They had thought Potter was contend to just sit there, lounging until nightfall.

But clearly, he wasn’t, for he then smoothly cut in when the next lull in the conversation came. What he wore while doing so was not a smile; it was a honest-to-goodness _smirk_. One that would not have been misplaced on the face of Dark Lord Voldemort himself.

None of the Slytherins could afford to admit it, but this lord wore that particular expression very well—he effortlessly scared the shit out of them with just a glance. It fit perfectly into a pattern they had come to recognise: any expression Potter wore that did not include a smile was always _terrifying_ and more often than not also _dangerous_.

They could only hope this one was part of the rare exceptions.

“I have confirmed today that the Ministry is as incompetent as ever,” Potter said—with the topic having shifted to politics at that point. “I think you’ll be _pleased_ to hear that many more of your fellows have escaped the Kiss.”

None of the Malfoys were overly concerned over _them_ , but it _was_ an interesting bit of information nonetheless. They read—correctly—in between the lines that the Hero himself was responsible for the mass-release somehow, probably indirectly.

It was confirmation to their theories that whatever revenge Lord Potter was planning was going to be _big_ and most likely destructive.

“I wonder what dear old Voldy would have said if he was here now?” mused said man’s killer then. “Once he was done with his tantrum over me congratulating him, that is.”

That apparent non-sequitur caused a fair amount of confusion amongst the rest of the occupants in the room.

“What would you congratulate Him for?” Draco asked before he could stop himself, and then hastily tacked on “Sir?”

“His birthday, of course!” replied the young lord almost gleefully. “Didn’t any of you know he was born on New Year’s Eve?” When he eyed the three blonds they mutely shook their heads in response.

Lord Potter cocked his head and smiled at them as if they were students he taught. “You really have to _take care_ of the holes in your knowledge _some time_ , you know?”

_Yes, we have to, before it is too late._

* * *

When it comes to paths, they say the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Still, it leaves us to wonder what a path paved with malignance will lead to. Will it be good or will it be worse? Who will draw the shortest end of the stick? Still, the path has been chosen and the course is set.


	18. Road to heaven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. I have finally completed this chapter for your reading pleasure. Sorry for the wait.  
> If you want to know why it took as long as it did... let's just say other people kept insisting on occupying my time, one after another. I just wasn't able to find time to write for most of the days of this month.
> 
> On a happier note; AST has now officially gone over the 1,000 hits mark. Thank you all for that! I hope you have enjoyed this fic so far and plan to follow along to the end.
> 
> Well, I will not keep you much longer. Just remember that time-wise it's still New Year's Eve in-story.  
> Have fun reading.

Narcissa, as the one most adept at reading Lord Potter’s mood, managed to nod back and say: “We plan to do so in the near future. Please excuse our ignorance for now.”

Potter graciously nodded in acceptance.

“Two hours left until midnight,” he suddenly spoke, glancing at the numbers he had conjured with a softly murmured “ _Tempus_ ” only a moment earlier. His gaze then went back to the family of three, his sort-of-but-not-quite-protégées.

A new expression took over his face, one that none of his aforementioned wards could read. It wasn’t quite inimical, nor could it be called pleasant, but as things stood they were not hopeful about the benevolence of its nature. Whatever it meant, the unusual mercurial mood the lord of the house was in did not bode well for the near future.

“I suppose it’s my turn now to talk the time away, isn’t it?”

This time his tone was light, like a child about to play a game with an adult it had convinced to join in on the fun—yet a slight bit subdued, much unlike the child he seemed to be.

Neither Lucius nor Narcissa nor their son were fooled by this.

Draco held back on his urge to demand of his former classmate to stop beating around the bush and cut to the chase. He had a feeling he knew what was coming.

And he was proved right the moment the resident storyteller’s first words filled the room.

**“There was a boy, whose life was sour. Let us call him ‘Second’ for the time being, shall we?**

**He was born to poverty, in a life of domestic abuse. His mother was his light in the darkness his father brought.**

**Second had but one friend. That friend was everything Second was not. Still, he didn’t care, because she was dear to him.**

**That Second was his friend’s mentor for the first steps she set towards the unknown. He told her and taught her everything she wanted to know. For how much Second liked her, he didn’t like her sibling who resembled him at his worst—malicious and bitter. He never could understand how the siblings could be so different, despite being related.**

**When the long-awaited first day came to an end, Second was of the green and his friend of the red. It was a setback for Second, but not unexpected. She burned too brightly to go anywhere else.**

**Still, their different orientations didn’t stop him from reaching out—and holding on.”**

This time, a distinctive aura hung about when there were no more words forthcoming. An ambiance of _imperfection_ , of _incompleteness_. Like there were still things to be said.

It lasted for a long time, though afterwards nobody could quite remember exactly how long it had taken.

“I wonder if it rings any bells?” Lord Potter then asked somewhat tiredly of thin air, leaning his head backwards to rest onto the top of the backrest.

Draco couldn’t grasp the meaning of the question—he had a feeling it was probably a muggle phrase—but couldn’t dismiss its importance. Two quick looks to either side told him neither of his parents knew the significance of the words either, though they certainly would agree with him that they had to find out at the earliest opportunity.

An unexpected touch on his shoulder had Draco jumping in momentary fright. His body automatically stiffened in his seat before he thought to look up to see what it was.

Lord Potter stood over him with one hand placed on Draco’s shoulder.

_When did he get here? How had he approached without any of us noticing? Why—_

The questions had to be quickly shoved aside, for the other youth moved— _gliding_ past, then around the sofa Draco was sat on to end up standing behind the blond. The young Malfoy didn’t dare turn around to keep the Lord in his sights as the other’s arms wound around the pure-blood’s neck and shoulders in an unsettling mockery of care and affection.

Lord Potter leant over then, and in one graceful motion laid his head next to Draco’s to nuzzle the white-blond hair, quietly humming some unknown melody all the while. Soon, Harry Potter-With-Too-Many-Titles lifted a tanned hand to ghost a caress over the pale cheek closes to him, then went on to stroke the length of the jawline with the tip of a single finger.

Every touch of the Savior was unnaturally _gentle_ —as if he thought that Draco would shatter under the slightest pressure. However careful the touch, it meant the former Slytherin Prince couldn’t relax at all. He remained tense, wondering when it all would change—when the torture would begin.

“Say, Junior?” the dark-haired hero whispered sweetly into his captive’s ear. “Shall I let you in on a secret?”

Draco, stiffly held in the embrace of his benefactor—who also doubled as tormentor—shivered, but still didn’t risk trying to move. He could hear the ice hidden in the voice, the unspoken threat, but also read an opportunity that wouldn’t come by again.

Despite the careful, yet frantic motions of his parents warning him against doing what he was about to do, Draco decided the possible rewards outweighed the risks—and bowed his head submissively.

“Please,” he breathed.

Potter was smirking again—or sported a bigger smile than usual at the very least—Draco knew. That subtle lilt of his voice was unmistakable to someone trained in politics from as early an age as Draco had been. He hoped it merely meant Potter was pleased, in a good mood, and not inclined to start a bout of destruction.

A puff of breath rolled over the young Malfoy’s skin, then another.

The mouth that had been almost pressed flat against his ear until then moved to rest on the junction between a white shoulder and an equally pale neck. The next breath left goosebumps in its wake and a shiver that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room.

Speaking directly against the expanse of smooth skin, Lord Potter’s words lost much of their tone.

But not their meaning.

Nor their haunted feeling of death.

The pure-bloods had only moments to digest what had been said. For then Draco’s world exploded into pain, while somewhere nearby—yet barely audible—a clock struck midnight.

* * *

When you mean to arrive at one destination, you might end up lost along the way. Nothing is as hard to reach and as easy to lose sight of as the highest, most desirable place one knows. What, exactly, means the illustrious  _h_ _eaven_ to you?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so you know, I deliberately gave the previous chapter--with its relatively light-hearted content--the darker title as opposed to this one--which has a more sinister feel and a lighter title. If you've paid attention to last chapter's end piece, you'll know why I did it that way. If not--well, you can always go back and look, right?  
> There's yet one last chapter coming to complete this trio of roads.
> 
> This time Harry's story is not about the pair of boys. Can you guess who this mysterious Second is?  
> And perhaps you might like to speculate about any reason(s) Harry may have for choosing this alias for that person?


	19. The middle road

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is quite a busy period of the year right now, but I managed to finish this chapter nonetheless. I deliberately used a different tense for the first half of this chapter (and I hope it has the effect I intended) so no need to panic that I've messed up the writing of this fic.
> 
> Also, if any of you want to figure things out for yourself, I'd advise not to go through the comments--just in case.
> 
> Happy belated valentine and carnival!

What followed was a thrashing nobody was likely to forget, least of all Draco—though how much he would clearly remember later was uncertain, due to being the one that had been caught up in the middle of the mess.

Narcissa remembered sharply exhaling, hissing a near-curse under her breath. _Of course_ they were due for another of these particularly destructive temper tantrums. She had felt the trembling of her legs, her hands, accompanied by the high that one only felt in the most dangerous of circumstances.

Harry Potter would’ve told her she was running on pure adrenalin.

Her spouse had been in a similarly agitated state, she had seen—half-crouched, hands held in front with curled fingers, as if he planned on scratching out the eyes of the first person he would attack—or was to attack him. It would have looked decidedly odd in a normal situation, but in this case she had perfectly understood.

Narcisse too had been about ready to bodily attack someone herself. Preferably Lord Potter.

Only the fact that Draco had still been in the centre of that storm, one that had no ‘eye’ to speak of, had made both of them demur. At that moment it hadn’t even registered that they were both wandless—as was their son—while Lord Potter had been armed in more ways than one.

By the time Draco had been released from the death-trap that was Lord Potter’s embrace, most of his skin had charred to be near-black in colour. Even from when she had stood it had been evident her child had had trouble breathing and had been on the verge of blanking out from pain.

In contrast, the Vanquisher had seemed unnaturally happy. Too happy for a grown boy-hero who had just battered and burned his unarmed childhood rival nearly to death with nothing but a lot of pure magic and a hug—wearing a smile throughout it all.

The Defender had then twirled around the room a few times, the very picture of an energetic child full of excitement for an outing it was about to leave for. His laugher had soon gained an edge of madness, had become progressively more deranged, until it had devolved into pure, unadulterated—hysterical, maniacal—glee.

A more perfect image of complete insanity Narcissa hadn’t seen since before the fall of the Dark Lord.

What hope did they have, Narcissa had despaired, that there was still enough hero left in that thing, _that shell_ , to bargain with for their lives?

She had been forcefully reminded of the hollowness of _that same youth’s_ emotions she could sense and the nothingness of those she could not. Of the emptiness that occupied the parts where emotions should be—and were not.

Everything came to an unexpected end when Lord Potter’s gaze had caught sight of Draco—still smoking, silently crying, lying in a heap on the floor—and the elder Malfoys anxiously hovering nearby, but not approaching. It had seemed to drive the point home, _somehow_ , that both parents did not dare help their offspring for fear of _him_.

They might never know exactly why, but, one way or another, it had been enough to stop the insanity.

In a flash, Potter-the-saint had been back—as if nothing of importance had happened—and he had seen fit to fix the physical damage with an almost negligent wave of his hand before disappearing in his usual utterly soundless manner.

As he had been dusted off and hovered over, Draco had briefly wondered—not for the first time—exactly where Potter’s saintly mask had come from—before he too had hastily been whisked away from the scene.

That was how the year 1999 had begun for the Malfoy family—with total confusion, a new story, and a dash of terror.

It was also the day that they did _finally_ uncover a vital clue.

“Draco, I think I we—” Lucius motioned to himself and his wife sitting next to him, “might well know the person indicated by Lord Potter in his tale toda—yesterday.”

Only realising when the word was already halfway out his mouth that the denotation of time was—if only by technicality—incorrect, Lucius hurriedly exchanged it for its proper equivalent in a manner most unlike his usual behaviour. Narcissa, just as uncharacteristically, didn’t even react to this faux-pas.

Draco had only regard for the words spoken and, true to form, demanded an explanation—even if he expressed that desire only by narrowing his eyes and the way he intently stared his—much too quiet—parents down.

When that didn’t prove effective enough, Draco ground out the one-syllable question of “Who?”

“Severus,” his mother answered him quietly, her harried face holding as much question as it did answer.

“Professor Snape?”

“Yes,” confirmed Lucius. “And yes, we are sure,” he added, to pre-empt his son’s next question.

Met with Draco’s baffled silence, Narcissa took it upon herself to explain. Lucius certainly wasn’t capable of it right then.

“Dragon, as you know, Severus was a very private person,” she began.

Draco nodded in full agreement.

“Due to his… personality, roles and duties—” _His paranoia mostly_ , she silently added without speaking the words aloud, “he had very few people he felt he could trust with his secrets.”

Another nod.

“Lucius and I were counted among them, if only because we witnessed or otherwise were aware of most of what happened in his life during his Hogwarts years. The years that were quite literally his formative years.”

She could read in her child’s face the impatience, the desire for her to just hurry up and get to the point, but it was impossible to just explain a man like Severus Snape with a handful of sentences.

That wonderfully complex man, who was too many things—deep, acrimonious, dark, crafty, snarky, capable, masterful—too many labels that had suited him, yet none a perfect fit.

But above all, he was a friend she dearly missed.

* * *

There are always two paths, two extremes, and they are always farthest apart. For every path of ‘too much’ there is one of ‘too little’. A road leads up, up and away, while its counterpart goes down, down below. Which path must you take, what choice should you make? Take the middle road, Aristoteles’ golden mean.


	20. Eliminate the impossible

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, sorry for the wait. I'm in the middle of a very busy period, what with my family's birthdays (including my own, so I'm officially a year older now) all falling in the same five-month window. In addition, that very same period holds no less than **five** mayor holidays, not counting the minor ones.
> 
> To compensate for the ever-growing lag on updating, I've decided to up the minimum length again, which you should notice immediately starting with this chapter. Still, I try to update at least once every month. Feel free to nag me should I fail to update within the next month.
> 
> In addition to everything else, let me say right now that I try to stick to canon facts. This means that in AST Severus is not identified as Draco's godfather--which is fanon--but I won't specify that he is not. You can interpret it either way, and feel free to pick the one you like. This story is driven by alternative explanations of the canon events (as shown by the relevant tag above) with the sole exception of the epilogue. If or when the past events get their turn to be written about, know that I'll likely skip the canon parts (because would be forced to re-write them word for word if I did include them) and at most you'll see events that _could be canon_ which simply weren't shown in the books.

“Severus was a half-blood.”

That fact was news to Draco if the widening of his eyes was anything to go by. Narcissa was highly surprised that he didn’t know, she had thought him to have picked up on it by now—if not before, then surely during the years of the war—but nevertheless gave her son the time to digest this piece of information.

“His father was a muggle by the name of Tobias Snape. His mother was the disowned daughter of the Prince family, Eileen Snape née Prince.”

“As often happens with this kind of _match_ , the fact that she had magic did not go over well with her… _spouse_.”

She meant the union of magical and muggle, and Narcissa dearly wished to substitute her last word with something much more fitting, although, inevitably, it would certainly be terribly vulgar as well.

Frankly speaking, she did not even possess the vocabulary to express her derision in nearly as derogatory a manner as she wished to.

Throwing off her murderous thoughts, she continued her explanation, her voice tinged with woe.

“Before and during most of his Hogwarts years, he had only one friend: a red-haired, vivacious muggle-born girl who was sorted in Gryffindor when they arrived. She later became his one true love; the one Severus could never have.”

Drawing in a fortifying breath, Narcissa had to take care not to choke on her next words.

“Her name was Lily Evans, and she was hailed as the brightest witch of our generation.”

“Lady Potter,” her son breathed, as if not daring to disturb the rest of the witch of whom they both spoke.

“Yes,” she agreed.

“I don’t know what the significance is of Severus’ life story to Lord Potter, but… I will impart to you what I know of it, as will Lucius.”

Upon seeing his wife turn her head to look at him, the Malfoy patriarch nodded, as if to say ‘I will’. He seemed aware enough of the conversation next to him, but was visibly still lost in his own morose thoughts.

The ex-Lady Malfoy then gave her attention back to her silent child.

Draco’s already pale skin had paled further, and Narcissa was sorry that she was about to add yet more depressing knowledge to what she had already given.

“Severus’ days at Hogwarts were mostly overshadowed by the way the members of Gryffindor and Slytherin reacted to his friendship with Evans.”

The youngest blond grimaced. “Not well, I imagine.”

“No, not in the least,” Narcissa confirmed with a single shake of her head, before becoming quiet again.

“You know that Severus and your father’s relationship goes… no, went back to their Hogwarts days,” she began anew. It was not a question.

Draco nodded anyway.

“Lucius was a prefect at the time Severus enrolled, so they were unable to spend much time together until Lucius’ graduation. Still, it was enough time to develop a mentoring bond.”

Mentoring was something well-known among the members of house Slytherin. Older students would take a first year under their wing for the first few months and help them get used to the castle. This relationship was informal and temporary—meant to exist only for those handful of months—but sometimes it lasted longer, usually until the graduation of the elder student.

But, some rare cases went even beyond that.

When a true, lasting relationship formed from this arrangement, it would be spoken of as a mentoring bond, though there would no longer be any mentoring involved. The name purely denoted how the relationship originated, no matter what form it had taken or what type of bond it had become.

“Why did the professor need it?”

A mentoring bond generally didn’t happen unless there was a reason, a need for a closer connection on either of the students’ part—this was common knowledge. From what he had been told moments before, Draco had inferred that it was probably the professor who had needed a stronger bond, though he didn’t precisely know why.

“He was caught between all sides, on every level. Between his unpleasant home life and hostile school life. Between the Lions and the Snakes. Between his heritage as the son of a dark witch and his friendship with a muggle-born. Despite his great talent at potions, dark arts, their counters and spell creation, Severus needed protection—because he stood alone against four Gryffindors whom couldn’t stand the sight of him.”

“Who were they?”

An image of four school boys with red-gold ties surfaced, unbidden. The first boy; black-haired, hazel-eyed and bold. The second; also black-haired, grey-eyed, rebellious and _so,_ _so painfully familiar_. The third; light brown hair, green eyes and shy. And the fourth; mousy brown hair, blue eyes and _so forgettable_.

A mere flash of a thought it was, but it caused Narcissa so many conflicted emotions, all tumbling over each other, that she didn’t quite know what to do with herself. _Anger, frustration, sadness, guilt, longing, hate, love, melancholy, nostalgia, bitter-sweet happiness, satisfaction, uneasiness…_

“As a group they went by the moniker of The Marauders,” Lucius cut in at that point. “Individually, they were named James Potter, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin and Peter Pettigrew.”

_Always in that order._

Draco’s skin was now white as snow. It had passed the stage of parchment while his parents hadn’t been looking.

“Potter…” he whispered, looking somewhat nauseous.

“The previous Lord Potter, yes,” agreed Lucius gravely, before he continued where his wife had stopped.

“I don’t know the exact circumstances from Severus’ second year onwards, since I had graduated by that point and ‘Cissa wasn’t told much for that one year she was still in school with Severus, but… It was _bad_ , and I expect it got worse with each year that passed.”

The was no need for more details, for clearly Draco had already gasped at this point that it had been more than the familiar rivalries between the two ever-fighting houses that become more personal with time—over a lot of incidents.

No, this had been outright bullying, and it had given birth to a bond of festering hated.

“Those four were, simply put, more malignant versions of the infamous Weasley twins,” confirmed Lucius, guessing—but more likely; knowing—his son’s unspoken thoughts.

That meant they had not only ganged up on the late—future—potions professor, but had also singled him out as the target of humiliating or painful pranks, on top of which he had had to endure the usual discrimination for being a Snake—by fellow students and professors alike.

Combine that with the other aspects of Severus Snape’s life Draco had just been informed of, and suddenly he more than understood why his head of house had been such an absolutely rapacious, hellacious, nasty _bastard_.

It was remarkable enough that professor Snape had made it to adulthood.

And now, the young pure-blood also had an inkling on precisely why professor Severus Snape had hated Harry Potter on sight despite both being allied to the Light.

Speaking of the Light…

“How did professor Snape even end up on the _other_ side, anyway?” he asked his father.

“I don’t know. If he hadn’t been on that side from the beginning, and I think not, _something_ must either have driven him away for the Dark _or_ attracted him to the Light.” _Or both._ “If so, I suspect it must have been somewhere between entering the Dark Lord’s service and the day Lord Potter became the boy-who-lived.”

A pained expression took hold of Lucius features before he continued, remarking bitterly: “For all that we had a mentoring bond, I was not his confidant on this matter.”

“Neither was I,” Narcissa added.

“Who would be?” Draco intoned exasperatedly, sounding as if somebody was strangling him. “I don’t think anyone could ever qualify as trustworthy enough for him.”

Narcissa felt a small smile take over her face. “Yes, that paranoia of his wouldn’t let him just trust anyone. And in hindsight, he was paranoid with good reason.”

 _Oh Severus, how you must have suffered for your choices. If only I had known earlier… I would have helped if you had so much as implied to need it. War be damned, even back then I would have come to the conclusion that there are things more important than that_ squabble _—and you always were one of them._

“Mother, is there anything else I should know—about professor Snape?”

Her child looked up at her from underneath his bangs—they were always mussed lately—with a shy, earnest look that she hadn’t seen on him for quite a while. It made him look very young, Narcissa thought, and her heart gave a painful squeeze.

“No, not at this time, I think. We have covered everything we know that is of importance.”

The rest of that very, very early morning was spent reminiscing over the dark potions master they had all thought to know so well.

* * *

When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. So truth you should seek, and you shall not turn away from it, however painful—or seemingly impossible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the people who don't know the quote in the end piece; it's spoken by Sherlock Holmes (written by Arthur Conan Doyle). More specifically, it's from The Case-Book of Sherlock Holmes.
> 
> EDIT: The end pieces are now centered and seperated from the rest of the chapter by a line; I did this to hopefully improve reading by making it more obvious where the end piece starts. I considered making them italicized or bold--or both--but in the end settled on this to avoid confusion with thoughts (italic) and parts of the Story (bold), while doing both would be too extreme.
> 
> I also made an edit to the beginning of chapter 6, mainly to clarify exactly what happened when Harry changed the way he uses magic.


End file.
